


And the Stillness the Dancing

by CharlieDemandsCoffee



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Drama & Romance, Eventual Smut, Gore, Light Angst, M/M, Mind Games, Power Dynamics, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5587957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieDemandsCoffee/pseuds/CharlieDemandsCoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The scent of dirt, sweat, and coppery blood in the air at this moment wasn’t typical of any dance Will had attended. Then again, Will mused, not many people had the privilege to dance with Hannibal Lecter."<br/>(Set post Wrath of the Lamb)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Balançoire

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If I owned Hannibal I would be too busy counting my money to write fan fictions.  
> Note: This is just a prelude to what I feel like will be a long multi-chaptered thing, so stay tuned.  
> I did not have a beta, and I wrote this in about an hour, so any and all mistakes are mine.  
> Criticism is welcome, but don't be rude. You know what I'll have to do then ;)

The first time Hannibal turned the blade over to Will, it was with the air of a man asking his beloved to dance. Which was odd, considering the scent of dirt, sweat, and coppery blood in the air at this moment wasn’t typical of any dance Will had attended. Then again, Will mused, not many people had the privilege to dance with Hannibal Lecter.

The action was confusing in the haze that enveloped Will’s brain, this time not from physical infection but from another kind of mental sickness, all brought on by watching Hannibal slice the life out of the man under him in the dark warehouse they were in.  
Feeling the sticky blade pressing gently into his palm, he looked up quickly and met Hannibal’s eyes, garnet in the warehouse light. Will furrowed his brow when Hannibal nodded to the man sitting in the chair, sobbing from fear and struggling against his bonds.  
“It’s your turn, Will,” Hannibal murmured close to Will’s ear, “I want to watch you.” 

The raw husk in Hannibal’s voice erected all the hair on Will’s neck and he gripped the knife tighter. He could feel Hannibal’s eyes on him as he strode over and leaned down in front of the beaten and bloody man, who shied away from him.  
“Now, now,” Will almost-soothed, running the tip of the blade along the man’s duct-taped mouth, “I would suggest you pour your heart out to us,” he continued, putting on a little show for Hannibal, whose eyes glittered under his mask of blood.

It was sick, but Will felt his spine tingle at being judged by him. He knew Hannibal wanted this for them. And Will wanted Hannibal, so really the trade-off wasn’t all that bad.  
“Because if you don’t, Dr. Lecter will do that for you anyway,” Will told the man, stalking toward him. Will could hear Hannibal chuckle darkly behind him, and his own mouth curved in a smirk.  
Will decided to follow his instincts and go a little further; with a flip of his leg, he lowered himself onto the victim’s legs, a deranged parody of a lap-dance, and waved the blade back and forth hypnotically. 

“Last chance to talk, Agent Fletcher,” Will told him. When the man continued to whimper and struggle away from him, even shake his head in defiance, Will pressed the blade to his jaw. He cut a slow line along the unshaven length, the blade slipping a little in the sweat that had gathered there. Will felt rather than heard the muffled scream that issued from behind the duct tape. Hannibal shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a hum of approval and a challenge for more in his voice. 

Will cut another jagged line on Fletcher’s chin, watching dark blood running down the man’s neck, goose-bumps of pain raising on the agent's arms. Will looked over his shoulder at Hannibal, who nodded. 

Spurred on by the motion, Will lined up, then sliced cleanly through one of Fletcher’s fingers, severing it below the second knuckle. Will heard it fall somewhere next to his shoes, and Fletcher screamed, almost throwing Will off his lap with his bodily reaction to the agony.  
Hannibal began to move closer, and Will shifted in Fletcher’s lap, his cock hardening in spite of his situation because now he could feel Hannibal’s body heat against his back. Will moved to let him get a better look at the carnage. 

“Don’t cut any major arteries. I want him alive for a bit longer,” Hannibal breathed, close to Will’s neck.

“I promise,” Will replied, leaning slightly toward him, making eye contact with the other man as he sliced slowly down Fletcher’s left temple. He could see the excitement at that in Hannibal’s eyes, could feel his breath speed up, could imagine his heart pumping faster.

It was intoxicating, being the center of Hannibal’s attention like this. 

A small part of Will, beating like the trapped bird in Sara Craver’s chest, told him this was madness, that he should turn the knife on Hannibal himself, or turn them into Jack, begging for forgiveness. Will felt a wash of sick lapping at the edges of his body as he cut, again and again, but eventually the thigh-tingling arousal at Hannibal’s presence began to drown that feeling out. 

Yes, he was insane. He was all-too-likely suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, or being coerced by a killer, or any number of other horrible things they would put in his file if they got caught. But Will forced himself to not worry about that just now and focus on the task at hand. 

Insanity had fit like a glove, and he was finding with each slice, each shot, each victim, and each lovely dinner at Hannibal’s table, that it was a glove he wore well. 

Will carved at Fletcher a bit longer, relishing the way Hannibal looked over his shoulder, admiring his work. Will knew that if he put on a good show, he would be rewarded later. 

After a while, Hannibal reached around Will’s body and ran his hands along Will’s straining arms. Will’s hands shook as Hannibal reached for the knife, leaving trails of blood in the hair on Will’s arms. 

“That was very good Will, allow me now,” he whispered, polite as always, and Will leaned against his chest, released the blade and allowed the doctor to maneuver him off Fletcher’s lap and into a standing position again. 

Will saw the rest in vignette, near slow motion, like a love scene through a Vaseline-covered lense: Hannibal trading places in Fletcher’s lap instead of Will, his arms flexing as he wrapped the wire he was holding around Fletcher’s neck and pulled, his body thrashing in tandem with the victim’s death throes, his more fluid and controlled.

Hannibal’s hair flopped into his eyes. His pupils dilated, pinning Will to the wall with his gaze. He never left his eyes, even as Fletcher’s blood soaked through his shirt and splattered onto his face. Will was covered in fluids himself: sweat, blood, mud, and saliva (he hadn’t even realized he had drooled a little). His clothes were ruined, shirt sticking to him. 

The carnage should have sent him running for the hills, sent him into hysterics. But his heart rate was calm, his breathing normal, albeit a little jagged from arousal. Between Hannibal’s grunts and panting over the gurgles of the dying man, the low lighting in the warehouse, and his constant eye contact with Will, the experience was anything but nauseating. It was intimate. 

And in the dimming light, with Fletcher bleeding out in great gushes onto the floor, the words came floating back to Will: 

“It deserves intimacy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this little prelude! I'll try to write as often as I can :)  
> I always write to music to set the mood so I wanted to include some favorites for you to listen to that I played while writing this:  
> Desire-Meg Myers  
> Pit of Vipers-Simon Curtis  
> Crazy in Love (cover): Sophia Karlberg  
> Animal (cover): Chase Holfelder
> 
> Side Note: Title is taken from the poem, "The Four Quartets" by T.S. Eliot, which you can find here: http://www.coldbacon.com/poems/fq.html  
> The dark religious theme combined with the visuals just ring of Will and Hannibal, particularly Hannibal's relationship with God and man. If you don't read the whole thing, be sure to at least read stanza III of "East Coker", which was my biggest inspiration.


	2. Adagio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two is up for the New Year! To Hannibal's house we go :)
> 
> Note: The chapter names are references to dance moves in ballet. The definitions of them also pertain to the chapters and Will and Hannibal's relationship dynamics throughout the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to make each chapter on the shorter side for two reasons: I want a sort of snapshot of moments and emotions, and I tend to slack off and not want to write if it's not in short bursts.  
> But mostly, I wanted each chapter to have it's own flavor and mood, like courses of a meal :)  
> I am working on Chapter 3 as we speak, which will be longer than my previous two.

Stumbling back to Hannibal's car Will's head was blissfully quiet. Both he and Hannibal were trudging through the snow outside the facility that held the warehouse where poor Agent Fletcher met his end, their bodies drizzling the snow in wine-colored stains, none of them identifiable and all of them sure to be erased with the next snowfall. 

The air was becoming sharp and flurried with snow, and both of them were both silent for the time being. There would be talking later, reminiscent of a different time when he and Jack and even Alana dined and laughed over wine at Hannibal's handsome table. The conversation would be hushed tonight, however; death had a way of binding tongues, even when you enjoyed causing it.

Will became aware suddenly how uncomfortable and disgusting his body felt. Blood was drying rapidly in the biting winter air, fusing his shirt and pants to his skin, clotting between his fingers. It felt like a horrible victory, like a beauty-pageant sash he was reluctant to claim. He would need a shower right away before he could eat the dinner he knew Hannibal was planning.

Hannibal himself was drenched in crimson, flesh glossy in the moonlight, like a savage heathen God come to take his sacrifices. Will was enchanted with him, still a little foggy from witnessing the artistry that was Hannibal doing what came naturally to him. Will swallowed down the tightness in his throat, willing his body to calm, already feeling himself becoming engorged, cock brushing against his zipper.

Hannibal's house had a calm that Will needed right now. Structure. Silence settled onto every surface of Hannibal's home even when the rooms were full of people. Perhaps it was all the sumptuous furniture muffling the noise, or maybe it was just Hannibal himself. His presence seemed to command attention, Will's most of all.

Will's house was hardly ever quiet. Between the dogs, his mechanical pursuits, and the music that he played on his downtime, the only silence came in sleep for him. And even then his mind rarely let him have peace, constantly flooding his cells with nightmares that crackled along his synapses until he awoke, panting and sticky at some ungodly hour or another.

The two men got into Hannibal's car, Will feeling around cautiously so as to not dirty the interior with carnage, despite the squeaky plastic covering it. Will sat in the chill for a moment as Hannibal circled around the back, placing his cooler in the trunk. They pulled away, headlights out, and Hannibal did not turn them on again until they reached the highway.

The wind was speeding up and the car jolted a little as it whipped against the rocky cliffs to their left. Will stared out the passenger window, gazing across the blurry guard rail to the sea that surrounded their right hand side. Inky, with silver capped waves and glittering sprays it looked to him like a mythical place. A place of rebirth, where two creatures had emerged, nude and dripping from their watery womb, to be set upon the land by vengeful Gods.  
Will could still smell the sea from the night they had fell. It had been glacial as it swirled up his nose and across his eyelids and he had held onto Hannibal so tightly he would find bruises in his flesh later.

He still couldn't find it in himself the reason why he had taken the tumble off the edge, but he knew that he had expected it to end. The greatest surprise of his life had been waking up, seawater burning his lungs, dashed across a foggy beach with his limbs tangled up in Hannibal's. He wasn't sure how far they had traveled, or how they had missed the rocks, but he knew Hannibal was breathing, and that his lips were a dull plum from cold. Will had lain upon that beach, teeth gritty with sand, body itchy with salt, and he had been convinced that if there was a God, they had abandoned him to this exquisite devil.

"Will," the demon whispered, his words floating on puffs of air in the cold, "We're here."

Hannibal unbuckled and got out to retrieve his groceries. Will followed him, eyeing the beautiful house, stoic and impregnable against the blackened sky. It was a lair fit for a creature like Hannibal, who was so at home among the lush velvet and dark wood panels, like a jaguar was at home in his cavernous, shady rain forest. Hannibal reached the door first and politely held it open, which struck Will as comic in that moment: a perfect gentleman, his suit covered in blood, and holding a cooler full of organs. _  
_

_Yes, we're perfect for each other all right,_ Will thought wryly to himself, clenching the knife in his hand harder. Stepping across the threshold, Will was engulfed in warmth and stood for a moment in the foyer, letting it swirl around his frigid skin. Hannibal turned on the lights and stalked to the kitchen to store his cooler while they both cleaned up.

Will smiled at Hannibal as he re-entered the foyer, and Hannibal's own exhausted grin answered his. 

"You look in dire need of a clean up, dear Will," Hannibal remarked, his voice soft as he strode forward. The clock chimed a tinny 1:00 a.m. from the other room, and Hannibal reached out to card his fingers through Will's hair, the strands stiff from dried blood. Will closed his eyes reflexively at the contact, the breath caught somewhere around his Adam's apple, a pleasant tingling-burn in his scalp. Hannibal hummed in question, and Will felt himself nodding an affirmative. The touch felt nice, but he desperately wanted to strip Fletcher off of him. 

"You may use my facilities, of course. My bathroom is the first door on the left of my bedroom," Hannibal added, untangling his fingers from Will's crunchy hair. Will inhaled, trying to play off the fact that he was holding his breath, through Hannibal's eyes told him he wasn't convincing at all. Will mentally shook himself as he headed to Hannibal's bedroom, telling himself it was dumb at his age to be reacting to a simple touch like this. 

Will found the bathroom easily enough, and closing the door he began peeling off his clothes, the fabric stiff and unyielding. The brightness of the vanity lights bouncing off the immaculate gray tile almost hurt Will's eyes after being in the dark for so long. Finally, nude and vaguely sticky, he started the water and climbed in.

He didn't allow himself to think about what,  _who,_  he was feeling slide off his skin and run under his toes down the drain. It wasn't the first time he had found himself in this situation. Will indulged himself under the scalding water, washing his hair with Hannibal's outrageously expensive shampoo _,_ and found himself getting lost in the scent he smelled so often on the doctor himself, a mix of spruce and green apples. The thought of Hannibal's scent on him, of Hannibal on him awakened his body again, and he had to be a little more tender with washing his groin, his cock twitching and swelling at the attention, however brief.  
God, he need to get laid, this was like puberty again. Ridiculous.

He washed the rest of his body in the almond and citrus soap, and a little while later, smelling thoroughly of Hannibal, he was dried and entering the bedroom again. The room was neat and almost clinical in the color scheme. It would have been uninviting had it not been for the general warmth of the decor and lavish fabrics. Will didn't dwell too long on the fact that he was in the very room Hannibal spent his most private moments, sleeping, relaxing, dressing and undressing, even more exuberant activities between those pristine sheets... 

He realized at that moment that he hadn't brought any clothes with him. He looked around for a moment, awkwardly clutching his towel to his hips, before he noticed a neatly folded hunter-green sweater and plaid pants in coordinating shades of green,  placed just so that he would know they were for him. He pulled them on, and finishing drying his hair, walked across cold tile toward the kitchen, feeling for a moment like he was some Christian from the Bible, about to be thrown to the lions.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My playlist for this chapter was a little slower and less intense as I wanted to slow the mood and chill it a bit. Here are some of my favorites: 
> 
> Wolf Trap Motel by Husky Rescue (when they're exiting the facility)  
> The End of All Things-Panic! at the Disco (the drive back to Hannibal's house and Will's flashback to the fall)  
> Nocturne in C Sharp Minor-Composed by Frederic Chopin, also played by Joshua Bell.(Shower scene)  
> Serenade-Composed by Franz Schubert, played by Joshua Bell on violin (This came on randomly during the brief touch scene so there may have been some slight influence)


	3. Chaînés

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will share a meal in honor of Will's victory as well as thoughts about their relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! I'm pumping them out fast, but I just can't tear myself away from these boys :P

Hannibal's kitchen was much like himself in personality.

It was a pristine place, reminiscent of autopsy labs and hospitals. There was much less evidence of his taste here than anywhere else in the house, the equipment more designed for function than for decoration. But once the good doctor began to cook and create, the kitchen came alive.

Put a good bit of flesh in Hannibal and he too was more lively.

This is a sacred place for him, a place of craft and care, where he could take the savagery of life and transform it to art. He could take someone with otherwise no purpose, and paint them full of color and brush onto them finery; a feast for the eyes as well as the stomach.

However irritating he found his high-class friends, there were uses for them all. All of them were actors with parts to play, and with Hannibal as the director, the scenes were something to behold. He loved to draw back the veil on humankind's attitudes to one another, shedding light over the tendencies of humans to "devour" one another in an attempt to climb the unsympathetic tree of survival. He delighted in the symmetry. 

Now, cleaned and freshly dressed, he was preparing a meal for himself and Will, Sopa de Mondongo. A simple recipe, due to the fact it was so late. The job tonight had gone on longer than he had expected. He was eager to use the fresh ingredients Agent Fletcher had provided, mainly for Will's benefit. This was his first time holding the knife and carving himself, after all. Hannibal wanted to reward him. He diced the tripe, the water-filled pot on the stove perspiring and giving off a hot lime-pepper scent, making his mouth water. 

Agent Fletcher would make a lovely work of art yet, he mused to himself, adding the onions, cabbage, and celery. The man didn't seem to have much of a stomach anyway.

He covered the pot and rubbed his hands with the dishtowel slung over his shoulder, setting a mental timer for the boiling ingredients. His hands slowed as he heard bare feet on tile headed his way. He could smell his own body wash and shampoo, even before Will was at the doorway. Something in his chest expanded, the predator in him pleased at having marked Will with his own scent.

"What's for dinner?" Will asked, coming close and placing his hands on the counter next to the stove. Hannibal's mouth curved and leaned over to check on his onions. He could feel Will's eyes on him, studying him as he so often did when he thought Hannibal was otherwise occupied. 

"Sopa de Mondongo. A simple Latin American recipe consisting of tripe, bell peppers, onions, carrots, cabbage, celery, tomatoes, cilantro, and garlic," Hannibal explained as he added more ingredients to his sizzling pot. He could taste the onions and garlic on his tongue from the air in the room, and they mixed with Will's scent in a strange, tantalizing combination.

"It smells wonderful," Will replied warmly, and he crossed immediately behind Hannibal, close enough to brush his apron strings, and leaned back on the counter next to him. Hannibal replaced the lid and caught Will's eye just as he plucked a small roma tomato off the cutting board and latched his mouth around the end, lips plumping over the skin as he sucked the juice out. Hannibal had taken notice of Will's fondness for eating raw tomatoes garnished with salt within a week of meeting him. As with all things about Will that struck Hannibal as strange, he found it disturbingly endearing. 

He watched Will now, watched his tongue slip out to lick his lips, leaving them glistening. Hannibal couldn't help but stare, his mental timer faltering, skipping minutes, as Will continued to nibble, seemingly unaware of how he looked in that moment. Hannibal realized how impolitely he was behaving, and resolved to pay attention to his cabbage leaves and not to Will's lips or hair or jawline, or God forbid anything else more indecent. It just wouldn't do to ruin dinner and waste Fletcher.

The ache in his thighs reminded him in a cruel little voice that his last sexual partner had been Alana, all those years ago. Just as Hannibal was careful about what he put into his body, he was also careful about who he put hisbody _into_. And right then, with Will's soft sucking noises floating to him on cilantro-scented humidity, his body spoke to him of all the places it wished to be. 

Managing not to burn dinner was a bit of a feat, but Hannibal's unconscious skills aided him and soon he was busying himself pouring wine and adding bread, while Will sat and watched him. 

It was strangely nice to be dressed in informal attire around Will, dining with him on simple foods. It made something in the back of Hannibal's mind pull, and Mischa's warmth and laughter came back to him so suddenly he nearly upset his glass of water. He smiled slightly to assure Will, who had stared at the movement, concern furrowing his brow, throwing his scar into white relief. He watched Will sip his soup, and noticed that he ate the tripe with more fervor than he had ever seen him exhibit before. Hannibal knew the feeling: pride at your accomplishments sitting low in the belly like a sick, dark thing. 

"This really is amazing," Will commented, avoiding Hannibal's gaze even as he smiled slightly.

Hannibal knew some part of Will was still ashamed of this, horrified of Hannibal himself and what they did together. Hannibal momentarily wished to reach inside of Will and pull that piece out to be dashed across the tile, to rip until Will was nothing more than what Hannibal had made him into. But that could never be, and a larger, more human part of Hannibal, never wished it to be so. He knew the outcome of trying to mold Will. The man was solid, though his outer demeanor gave the illusion of vulnerability. 

"I'm glad you like it, though I cannot take all of the credit. You are the one who found the pig, after all," Hannibal praised, sipping at the last of his own soup before catching Will's amused huff. 

"You're the one who killed him," Will replied, his voice a little jagged with accusation. 

"Neither the butcher nor the chef takes much credit for the idea of the meal, or the selection of the livestock. That is up to the client," Hannibal said, inclining his head toward Will. He rose from the table to collect dishes, eyeing Will in his peripheral vision.

"Am I a client of yours, Dr. Lecter?" Will asked him, rising from the table as well, his calloused fingers fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater. 

The corner of Hannibal's mouth quirked and he made his way back to the kitchen, balancing dishes on his forearms. Hannibal washed quickly, and headed out toward his bedroom, Will on his heels until they reached the doorway. Will looked surprised, as though he had followed without awareness. Hannibal supposed his awkwardness was due to the implications of being in the same bedroom, and possibly the same bed as Hannibal. 

"You are not a client of mine, William. I prefer to think of you as a student of mine, or a partner," Hannibal said, nearing Will and reaching out to still his clumsy fingers, lest he shred the sweater to bits. Introducing new levels of intimacy to their relationship was a bit like easing Will into an ocean to swim. If the water was not warm enough, only a toe would enter before retracting, the body never to be immersed. Priming Will with a shared kill had warmed him to the idea of sharing a bed. If men had to die to strengthen their relationship, well, Hannibal had killed for less. 

"Our relationship is tumultuous, but that does not mean it cannot also be symbiotic," he added, voice quiet, like a hunter afraid of spooking a deer. Will looked up at him, holding his gaze steadily, and Hannibal felt Will's fingers slide along his own, rough pads grazing just above the veins. 

"Our... _relationship_ will be the death of us, Hannibal," Will's words betrayed the tremble in his throat, "If there is a vengeful God, then we are on his most-wanted list."

Hannibal gently threaded his fingers through Will's own, pulling him further into the bedroom. The clock displayed 2:10 a.m., and sleep was calling. 

"I have lived and died a thousand times in your presence, Will," Hannibal murmured, feeling the bed sink under his and Will's combined weight. Will went without fuss or protest, simply needing comfort and closeness. Even wolves huddled together on cold nights; Hannibal wondered if they felt the need after a shared kill as well.   

"And if God sees fit to end me because I am with you, then I can afford to suffer one more death,"  he whispered, and, watching sleep cover Will's eyes with a cloak, drifting off himself, he knew that one day God would strike him down. 

If it had to be done, he hoped it would be at Will's hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist some "cannibal puns" since I was writing this from Hannibal's perspective. I tried to capture the distance of third-person as well as give a taste of difference in vocabulary and structure for each character. 
> 
> The recipe he is following has a total cooking time of 35 minutes, which I think is about as quick a meal as Hannibal would tolerate making for Will's first time with the knife unless he was heating up leftovers. 
> 
> The soundtrack for this chapter was sort of hard to choose. I wanted it sort of domestic and classy at first but then it just went all into heart-wrenching at the end:
> 
> Cantabile: op 17 composed by Niccolò Paganini, played by Alexander Marcov on violin (When Hannibal is cooking)
> 
> O Mio Babbino Caro-From the opera Gianni Schicchi (dinner scene)
> 
> I Want You To Want Me (Cover) by Gary Jules (bedroom scene)


End file.
